by Olivia Drake
A soft touch on his hand drew his gaze to Norah. She was smiling at him, and the love shining on her face brought a cleansing lightness to his spirits. She loved him for the man he was, and her gentle understanding had helped him come to accept himself.
Their eyes held for a timeless moment; then she turned to the maharaja, who looked on in bemused interest.
“That was a wonderful description, Your Highness,” she said. “If I might ask a great favor, though?”
“Koi baat nahin.” Petting the monkey’s back, the maharaja smiled. “Whatever you like.”
“Have you a priest here who might marry Kit and me according to Hindu law?”
Her startling suggestion rocked Kit. He opened his mouth to protest, because he wanted a legal and binding ceremony, not a pagan rite. Yet suddenly the prospect held a certain appeal. Norah was offering him the rare chance to experience for himself the religious practices of his maternal ancestry. They could exchange their Christian vows later.
Grasping her hand, he said firmly, “Yes, we would both like that very much.”
“But of course. I will make the arrangements. And give you a wedding present, too.” The maharaja removed the emerald from his wrist and passed it to Norah. “A token to match your pretty eyes.”
She stared down at the jewel glinting in her palm. “Oh, I could never accept so rich a gift,” she murmured.
“Nonsense. It is nothing to me. You of all Englishwomen will esteem the stone, since your departed husband appreciated fine jewels.”
Keen attention riveted Kit. “Then you knew of Maurice Rutherford? His agent must have reached you, after all.”
The maharaja waved his beringed fingers. “Yes, many months ago, before I left on my voyage here, I sold him the diamond, Fire at Midnight. I was told the stone is to decorate the crown of England’s Princess of Wales.”
Kit and Norah exchanged a glance. The light of relief brightened her gaze. “Thank heavens,” she said, clutching the emerald to her bosom. “Mr. Upchurch must be on his way back from India, then.”
“Upchurch?” The maharaja frowned. “I know of no Upchurch.”
“But you must,” she said, her head tipped to the side. “He’s the agent my husband hired.”
The maharaja gravely regarded her. “This is most odd. There must be a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” Kit asked hoarsely.
“The man who came to my palace in Rampur called himself Jerome St. Claire.”
Chapter 16
“You’re married?” Ivy chirped. “Oh, no!”
The old woman’s downturned mouth and tearful aquamarine eyes dismayed Norah. She and Kit had pledged their love first in the exotic Hindu rite and then again in the private chapel at the estate of his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Lamborough. A haze of happiness had enveloped them on the train ride to London, a bliss so pure and sweet she had been sure the entire world must rejoice, too.
Dear God, she had looked forward to sharing the wonderful news with the only family she had ever known. In spite of the estrangement, she had hoped for their support and acceptance. Yet she’d never expected sadness from Ivy.
Leaving Kit in the doorway, she stepped across the parlor and gathered Ivy’s spidery hands. “Yes, Kit and I are married. Aren’t you pleased for me?”
“Can you blame the poor creature for being upset?” Winnifred interjected from her seat by the fire. With a self-righteous jerk, she straightened her black shawl and glowered at Norah’s fashionable lilac-gray gown, at the matching jacket with its braided frog fastenings. “People have been gossiping about your unconventional conduct. When they see that you’ve abandoned your mourning dress and sullied Maurice’s memory by remarrying in haste, Ivy and I will bear the brunt of their censure. We’ll be ostracized, ruined!”
“You’re overlooking one fact, Winnifred.” Walking toward the half circle of chairs, Kit slapped his taupe leather gloves against his palm. “Norah is now the Marchioness of Blackthorne. Henceforth, she will be addressed with respect. By everyone.” He placed his hand on Norah’s shoulder. His support buoyed her flagging spirits with the knowledge that he would always be there for her.
Winnifred flushed. “I meant no slight, your lordship.”
“Better you should make your apologies to my wife.”
As stiff as a marionette, she picked at the lace doily draping the arm of the chair. “Forgive me, my lady.”
“Of course.” Norah turned her gaze back to the woman whose skinny fingers she still held. “Ivy, I’m sorry if my announcement displeases you. As soon as you know Kit better, I’m sure you’ll grow to love him nearly as much as I do.”
“Oh, but I already have a great regard for his lordship. And I’m not bothered by silly gossip.” Ivy blinked behind the spectacles. “But I do confess I’m worried.”
“Worried?” Norah glanced up at Kit’s vigilant features. Bleakness battered her heart; he still considered her loved ones capable of murder. “What is it that worries you?”
“Now that you have a home with Lord Blackthorne, you don’t need this one. Where will Winnie and Marmalade and I live?”
The fog of suspicion cleared. Norah stroked the papery back of Ivy’s hand. Poor Ivy had endured such disapproval from Maurice and Winnifred that she had never been sure of her place. “Oh, darling. I’m not planning to sell the town house. You’ll have a home here for as long as you like.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Despite her appearance of frailty, Ivy half skipped over to the hearth, where she bent to stroke the sleeping cat. “Did you hear that, Marmalade? We’re going to stay here after all.”
The cat stretched its orange striped paws toward the fire, then settled back into slumber.
“I should be happy to continue shouldering all the housekeeping duties,” Winnifred intoned.
“Thank you,” Norah said. “That would be most helpful.”
A shrewd intensity glinted in Winnifred’s brown eyes. “May I also reassure you that in your absence I’ve been tending to poor Maurice’s grave? I fear I must report an odd happening there.”
Kit’s hand tensed on Norah’s shoulder. “Explain yourself.”
“Last Friday when I went to clip the grass near the tomb, there was a red rose lying atop the marble. When I returned this morning, there was another one, fresh as springtime, dew still on the petals. It would seem someone’s been bringing a single new rose each day.”
The cold fingers of shock iced Norah’s spine. Red roses. A red-cloaked woman. A red-lined jewelry case. Did the clues add up to the same person? The person who had killed Maurice?
“Have you informed the police?” she asked.
“No.” Winnifred hesitated. “I thought I had better speak to you first...my lady.”
“Thank you,” Kit said. “We’ll notify Inspector Wadding at once.”
“You missed him the other day.” Ivy sat down with her tatting. “He came round and gave me back my brooch.” She lowered her lacy black shawl to display the mourning piece pinned over her heart. “What a kind man he is.”
“Was he able to find the jeweler who engraved the inside inscription?” Norah asked.
“Why, mercy,” Ivy said, in wide-eyed innocence. “I never even thought to ask.”
“Humph,” snorted Winnifred. “Forgot is how I would call it.”
“I didn’t forget. Rather, I would never presume to meddle in the business of Scotland Yard.”
“How you do like to fool yourself—”
“If you ladies will excuse us,” Kit broke into their bickering. “Norah and I must be going.”
Out in the blustery day, he helped her climb into the elegant brougham waiting at the curb. Norah gazed through the beveled glass window at the overcast sky, at the trees with their green mist of new leaves. In the weeks since she’d been gone, spring had crept over the city. Yet the old fears piled inside her again, as dark and dank as musty humus in a graveyard.
As
Kit seated himself beside her and the carriage rattled off, she said, “Do you think the roses were left by the murderer?”
“It’s a good possibility.” A grim smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “This could be the most important clue yet. Now the police can post a guard to watch the grave.”
“But why would someone leave the flowers?” She shivered from an eerie thought. “It’s almost as if this person...loved Maurice.”
Kit settled his hand over hers. “It is odd. I suppose the culprit might be Ivy or even Winnifred herself. But it better fits my theory that he was murdered by a man who was his lover.”
One unspoken name hovered in the close confines of the carriage. Jerome. He thought Jerome was the murderer.
“Thaddeus wants the royal commission,” she said quickly. “He could have pushed me down the stairs. And he worked closely with Maurice, too. They might have been...”
“Lovers? It’s a possibility, yes.”
But his tone was desultory, his expression distracted.
If Thaddeus were the killer, Norah thought feverishly, poor Winnifred would lose her dream. Then again, perhaps Winnifred knew. Perhaps she loved Thaddeus so much she could abet him in murder. But did she know of the cruel way he would use her if they married?
“Norah,” Kit said, tipping her chin up. “I know it hurts you, but we must consider St. Claire.”
Bitter denial choked her. She parted her lips to chastise Kit, then paused. Reluctant to spoil the perfection of their brief honeymoon, they had spoken little of the disturbing news delivered by the maharaja. They had avoided the topic of murder altogether and instead made love with quiet intensity, as if their combined devotion could ward off the perils of a world gone mad.
Now, within their first hour back in London, strife threatened to split them asunder.
She pressed her cheek to his coat sleeve and wished she dared kiss him in public, wished the gold velvet curtains were drawn against the city folk and vehicles streaming past the brougham windows. Instead she clasped his hand. “Kit,” she murmured over the clopping of hooves. “Oh, Kit, if only we could run away. If only we could return to the island and live in seclusion forever.”
His dark lashes lowered slightly. He slid his arm around her shoulders, turned up her chin, and melded their mouths. The bold move made her stiffen for a few heartbeats; then the irresistible craving beckoned, drugging her to all but the taste and texture of her beloved husband. Blessed heat trickled past the chill in her body and formed an ever-increasing pool within her deepest part. He kissed her with slow sensuality, with tempting tenderness, until she arched mindlessly toward him, her hands sliding inside his coat, riding downward to his firm waist, then lowering to the buttons of his trousers.
He caught her wrist. “Have patience,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ll be home soon.”
The affectionate deviltry in his voice reawakened her to their surroundings. The carriage swayed around a corner. Through the front window, she spied the coachman’s blue-clad legs, the prancing rumps of the two black horses, the throng of pedestrians on the crowded Mayfair street.
The heat of passion altered into mortified warmth. She jerked her hands into her lap and sat primly upright. Looking immeasurably pleased with himself, Kit lolled like an Indian prince against the leather seat.
“I’m glad,” he said, running his gloved finger down her flushed cheek, “that you prefer me to St. Claire.”
“There isn’t a contest between you two. There never was.”
“So you say.” Moody darkness swept away his smile. Kit gripped her hand hard. “I shan’t let him harm you, you can be certain of that.”
His conviction about Jerome’s culpability flooded her with the old irritation. “Don’t condemn him yet. For heaven’s sake, it’s ridiculous to think of him and Maurice...in bed together.”
“Have you ever known St. Claire to court a woman?”
Her heart tumbled. She felt dismayed and foolish to realize she’d never questioned his bachelorhood. “No, but he travels on the continent for weeks, sometimes months at a stretch. He hasn’t the need for a wife.”
Kit’s upraised eyebrows mocked her explanation. “Every person needs sexual release, one way or another. Surely you understand that now.”
She did. Dear God, the need burned like an eternal flame in her heart. “He would hardly speak to me of his mistresses,” she went on doggedly. “When we confront him, we’ll find out the truth.”
“No. I’ll call on him alone, Norah. I won’t take you into a cobra’s nest.”
His eyes radiated an arrogant strength of purpose. She flung off his hand. “He’s my friend. I have every right to be there.”
“Not this time. Anything could go wrong. He could shoot you before I even moved. He could shoot me and then have you at his mercy.”
The bloody scenario clashed with the fond memories of Jerome escorting her to the theatre, making her laugh with his amusing tales of the European nobility.
She released a disbelieving breath. “I’m going with you, Kit, and that’s that. If you try to stop me, I’ll simply follow you. Or will you lock me in my room like a naughty child?”
“Damn, you’re stubborn—”
He bit off his words and shifted his gaze out the window. She could tell by the pursing of his lips and the crease in his brow that he didn’t intend to give an inch in the quarrel.
Neither did she.
Two hours later, Jerome himself resolved the standoff. He barged into the library, barely a step ahead of the footman who hastened to announce the guest to Kit and Norah.
“Milord,” gasped the servant. “He pushed past me. I’m most awfully sorry—”
“Never mind, Herriot.” Kit shot to his feet, his hand in his coat pocket, where Norah knew his gun lay. “I’ll deal with our visitor.”
“Yes, milord.” Herriot bowed and went out, closing the doors.
Norah sat rigid, her hands gripping her teacup and her heart pulsating. Other than a swift glance, Jerome paid her no need. His fists were clenched, his cheeks reddened.
Like a bull intent on vanquishing a rival, he advanced on Kit. “I demand to know why you’ve been hiding Norah for nigh on three weeks.”
“You aren’t welcome here, St. Claire. I said in my message that I’d call on you in the morning.”
“Devil take your evil plans.” Jerome stripped off his overcoat, the buttons gleaming like gold disks in the dull light of late afternoon. He flung the garment on a chair. The russet handkerchief in his breast pocket mismatched his opal-gray suit, as if he’d dressed without his customary care.
“Norah,” Kit said. “I want you to leave.”
“No.”
Their eyes locked, his hotly furious and hers coolly resolute. Then he wheeled away, toward Jerome. “Keep your distance. If you threaten her, I won’t hesitate to use this.” He drew his pistol from his pocket.
Jerome went rigid. “Me, threaten her? You’re the villain who lured Norah into your trap. And don’t bother spinning any lies about her staying at your parents’ estate. I called on them last week and she wasn’t there.”
Because she had been on the Isle of Wight with Kit.
Jerome’s impassioned manner troubled Norah. Did the taut mouth beneath the silver mustache reveal true concern for her well-being? Or a madman’s determination to track down his quarry? Seeking nuances of expression that might indicate his guilt, she saw only the familiar blue eyes and patrician features of the man who had been a loyal friend.
Kit glowered. “You must have just missed us. Norah and I left my parents for a week before returning to the Lamborough estate a few days ago.”
“Explain yourself, by God. Or Norah’s leaving with me.” Jerome stalked toward her.
Kit brandished the gun. With icy menace, he stated, “Stay away from my wife.”
Jerome jerked to a halt. “Your wife?” he said in a strange, hoarse tone.
“Yes.” Kit moved beside her chair an
d touched the crown of her hair. The smooth gesture matched his deceptively casual face. “Two days ago, she did me the great honor of pledging herself to me in front of my parents at the duke’s private chapel. She is now Lady Blackthorne.”
Heedless of Kit’s gun, Jerome sank to one knee before her chair and snatched up her hand. “Did he compromise you? If the wretch forced you into this marriage, just say the word and I’ll do everything I can to untangle you from his web.”
His protectiveness touched her aching heart, even as his familiar scent of peppermint and tobacco reassured her. Dear Blessed Virgin, Jerome couldn’t be a thief and a killer.
Could he?
She shook her head. “Kit didn’t coerce me. I married him out of love.”
One silver brow winged upward. “How can you be so certain of your affections? You’ve known him only a few brief months. You’ve been overwrought since Maurice’s death.”
“What a hypocrite you are,” Kit drawled. “Especially considering your role in her first marriage.”
Jerome frowned up at him. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Then let me make myself clear. You found an innocent sixteen-year-old girl and arranged her wedding to a man old enough to be her father. To a man she had never even seen.”
He paled. Slowly he rose to his feet, a smaller man compared to Kit’s height and breadth. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources. Will you deny the truth?”
Jerome lowered his gaze to the hearth, as if the low-burning blaze held the answer to a great mystery. Tense, Norah waited for him to look at her.
When he jerked his chin up, he addressed Kit. “I admit I acted as an emissary when Maurice told me he wanted to marry.”
